


Mortal fears

by Liaeling



Category: Alexander (2004), Alexander Trilogy - Mary Renault, Ancient History RPF, Classical Greece and Rome History & Literature RPF, Dancing with the Lion - Jeanne Reames, Historical RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 07:55:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26968618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liaeling/pseuds/Liaeling
Summary: “So if you feel like your blood is bubbling inside you and you want to scratch your eyes out, it means he is not gone, Hephaestion. It means he is there, burning your blood and scratching from the other side.”
Relationships: Alexandros III of Macedon | Alexander the Great & Hephaistion of Macedon, Alexandros III of Macedon | Alexander the Great/Hephaistion of Macedon
Comments: 8
Kudos: 34





	1. Clotho

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I suck at titles and summaries, sorry.
> 
> Pandemic got me good. This came out as another late night inspiration struck.
> 
> I'm adding the historical background to the story as an end note, in case you don't understand certain details. I wouldn't recommend reading the historical note before reading the whole story (3 chapters), might ruin some key moments for you.
> 
> The characters are really pictured quite different from the "Alexander (2004)" and "Mary Renault" representations. Jeanne Reames' books and her representations are closer to my personal idea of Alexander, Hephaestion and several other characters. If you haven't read those books, go and read them. 
> 
> If you read and like the story, be sure to comment. I appreciate all feedback, I truly do.  
> Anyway, hope you enjoy this.

There was a silence around him that had started an itch on the back of his skull. The men were never quiet between sieges, battles, and marches, there was always activity in camp. This silence was cursed, this silence belonged in Hades.

Peucestas walked in between tents and bonfires, looking towards the low mountains in the west. The last light of the day was slowly fading beyond the horizon. Men were huddled close to the fires, despite the fact that the Indian winter felt like the Hindu Kush spring. These men had seen their friends die of cold up between mountain passes. These men had left their friends behind to freeze instead of wasting energy in carrying them down the mountain. They were hardy men, men that had seen and done things they couldn’t describe. They had more broken bones than concubines, and more concubines than teeth. Get too close and they bite like rabid dogs. Poke too hard and they lash out like serpents. They were tough, they were rough… and they were tired.

Mutiny was in the air, curses were in some minds, sharp daggers not too far from reach. More than one skirmish had ended in broken noses, more than a few of those in open disdain and factions. They were testing the air around them, waiting for the thunder to fall in order to bring the storm. 

And the thunder was flashing, closer and closer each day. It had first appeared on top of a wall, bright and violent. Their King had stood there, alone. And before the thunder hit, he had jumped to the other side of the wall.

Peucestas could still remember each detail of those terrifying moments. He had gotten to the top of the wall, he couldn’t remember how, and along with Leonnatus and Abreas had leapt down next to Alexander. They were all so used to his rashness and blind drive but this was different. This was senseless.

He had stood next to his King, holding the Trojan shield above him. And he had thought again and again: ‘This is how it ends.’ He remembers the push of a thousand Mallian men upon him, from all sides. The smell of sweat, blood, and piss that permeates every battlefield was fixed in this small corner. They were surrounded, four of them against Zeus knew how many. 

He can’t remember thinking. His reflexes and learned dissociation had kicked in, as in it did in every battle. The only thing he remembers processing was one of the most terrifying sights he had seen since leaving Macedon and starting the long march East. He had looked to his right, shield still held high up on that side to protect his King, and he had not found Alexander in his field of vision. He remembers looking around, confused. Only when Leonnatus had stood in front of him, hacking away at a couple of men and pushing him back in the same movement, had he looked down to stop himself from falling. There, next to a fallen rock, was Alexander. He was looking up, eyes open and transparent, not completely focused on anything. A fifteen-inch arrow was stuck to the left side of his chest. 

From that moment on, he only remembers doing everything and anything to protect his King. He couldn’t remember how he had gotten the injuries he had - two to the left side, one in the head, one in the right leg - or how things had ended and they had gotten out of there. He remembers waking up in the Royal Tent and being quickly looked over by a doctor that, immediately after making sure he would live, got up and joined the retinue of doctors, Generals, and Magi that surrounded the Royal Bed and an unconscious Alexander.

The King was down. This time around it wasn’t a fever, it wasn’t exhaustion. This time around it was something they all feared. Peucestas wondered how many gods were being called upon tonight, a full day after they had brought Alexander, pale and weak, into his Royal Tent. The men were silent, but the Priests and Magi had never been busier.

No one said it, but they all thought it. Alexander was the Sun, the Light, and the Thunder. He was their King, their Leader, and their General. But tonight, as the light faded and the sun set, he was only one thing to the silent men around the camp.

He was  _ mortal _ .

* * *

He hadn’t slept in thirty hours.

Twenty four hours ago, he had read the short and cold letter that said: “King is down. Arrow to his left chest. Pierced lung. Air and blood expelled from open wound with each breath. Unconscious.”

There was no name, no hour stated. The last word, ‘unconscious’, could have been written at any given moment. It implied ‘alive’ only at the moment it was written, but it did not mean ‘alive’ right as the messenger departed to deliver the letter.

‘Unconscious’ meant ‘Unsure if will survive’.

His back hurt. He wasn’t sure how long he had sat in the same position. He couldn’t remember if he had eaten. There was no memory of him questioning the messenger, neither could he remember who had shared the news with the army. Probably Craterus.

Outside his tent, the men were wailing. It was a sound he could remember hearing only once before: the morning after they had burnt Persepolis. The wailing had come from the Persian city beyond the Palace and it grew like a wave, covering it all.

This time around, the wailing was around him. And he understood the muffled words between wails. “We will die in India”, “There will be open mutiny”, “Alexander dead means all of us dead”.

Right outside his inner tent flap, there were high-pitched soft wails. His Pages were mourning. He was sure Nestor, the youngest, was the one that was openly sobbing.

He shut his eyes tightly, trying to remember the last words he had shared with Alexander. He remembers shushing him, afraid the Pages might overhear their conversation. Alexander had been trying to tell him something, but no matter how hard he shut his eyes and cleared his mind, he couldn’t remember what they were talking about. He remembers Alexander’s smile as he was shushed. He had reached out and slapped him playfully on his left thigh, making the youngest Pages around him look down instantly with red faces.

Alexander had said something after that. But he couldn’t remember the words. He remembers his lips moving, face leaning in, lips moving close to his ear. He stills feels his King’s hair brushing against his shoulder, hot breath in his neck. But nothing else. The memory fades after that. 

Had those been his last words to him? Would he go on living not remembering those words?

“Hephaestion?” came a whisper from his left side.

He opened his burning eyes and found Ptolemy standing in front of the inner tent opening. The soft wailing outside the inner chamber had stopped. 

Ptolemy was in his early 40’s, prominent bags under his eyes. He was dressed in a simple white chiton, a dark blue chlamys across his shoulder. Like a flash of lightning, Hephaestion’s mind took him back to those days at Mieza, when Ptolemy had been someone else. He had been in his early 20’s then, full of life and zest. Alexander had always thought of Ptolemy as a good man, but during his Mieza years Hephaestion had only found him annoying. He had a habit of interrupting Aristotle in the middle of complex arguments and in their free time he always wanted to serve as tutor to the youngest students. 

For a couple of months, Hephaestion had even thought he wanted Alexander as his eromenos. The attention he had lavished on him was at times excessive, and Alexander’s character and opinion of him had prevented him from denying those attentions. Hephaestion had been jealous back then, especially since his relationship with Alexander hadn’t crystallized at the time. Ptolemy kept reminding him, without saying anything, of where he stood. Another barely-important noble. Just a playmate for the developing Prince. 

Despite those weeks of tension for Hephaestion, things had changed in the middle of that summer. Aristotle had decided to divide the students by pairs to set them a botanical cataloguing task. Everyone thought their Master would pair boy and youth as was traditional, but Aristotle had decided to teach them a lesson in patience. Boy would work with boy and youth with youth, in order for the youngest to apply themselves more and not lag behind, and for the oldest to understand they set the example for the youngest. Alexander and Hephaestion had been paired, and it had resulted in them spending almost every hour of the day together, the situation making it impossible for Ptolemy to intervene. That summer things had changed for them, and many years later, that time would be remembered as golden and perfect by both Alexander and him.

“Hephaestion, we do not know if he is dead,” present-day Ptolemy whispered, voice slightly trembling.

Hephaestion blinked and noticed the scars in Ptolemy’s left arm. How many battles had they fought since those days in Mieza? He truly didn’t know the number. How much foreign blood had they spilled and how much they had lost themselves? They were eons away from those boys and youths in the meadows and valleys of Aristotle’s school. The nightmares that came every night reminded them of that.

“The army needs to see you. You haven’t stepped out of your tent since yesterday,” Ptolemy whispered, stepping closer to him. He was looking down at Hephaestion, scanning his face and posture. His eyes narrowed suddenly as he spotted his light stubble.

“Hephaestion… have you slept?” his voice was now tentative, slightly alarmed.

Hephaestion looked up at him from where he sat, from where he had been seating since Hades knew when. He let his jaw open, only then realizing he had been clenching it for a long time.

“He might be dead or dying and you want me to sleep?” he heard himself saying, voice raspy and low, barely even a voice. He felt a tickle on the back of his throat, like someone had shoved a stick down. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to throw up or scream.

Ptolemy pulled up a chair from the other side of the table and sat in front of him, face determined. He always pulled that face when he wanted to ‘teach a lesson to us boys’ as Perdiccas used to say in half-jest. He put his elbows on his knees and stared at him from a lower angle, looking up in a conciliatory manner. He stared at him in silence for some minutes, clearly choosing his next words with care.

“What does your heart tell you?” he said matter-of-factly, like the question was obvious at the moment.

Hephaestion looked him up and down, wondering if he had lost his mind as much as him. Ptolemy might be a bit pompous and patronizing at times, but Hephaestion had always respected one of his most prominent traits: his lack of sentimentality. Him asking such a question made no sense, that was even obvious to his sleep-deprived mind.

He must have shown confusion in one way or another for Ptolemy put his right hand out in a pacifying gesture.

“I mean, do you feel like he is dead?” he asked, his eyebrows shooting up, his patronizing signature move.

Hephaestion stared at him without really looking. His gaze was slightly blurry, he almost felt like the light was pulsing around him. He hadn’t stopped to think of that ever since he read the letter. It was a question he wanted to avoid. He saw Alexander now, across the years, reddish hair in his line of vision. He was walking in front of him, his back to him. It was midnight and there was no moon, they were in the middle of a forest and Hephaestion was afraid to look away from that reddish head. He would die if he lost him.

“I know you don’t think too highly of me…” started Ptolemy, still looking intently at him.

Hephaestion instinctively went to contradict him but was stopped by the same right hand out.

“Don’t try to deny it, I’ve always known it,” he said, curt and honest. Hephaestion simply closed his mouth again, knowing there was no point in contradicting.

“Even if you’ve never thought highly of me, I have my abilities. One of them being, knowing when to step up and when to step down. But most importantly, when to step back,” he stated, looking at him straight in the eye.

Hephaestion saw nothing but honesty in that gaze, and in that moment, he knew. 

All those years ago, back in Mieza… he had been right. Ptolemy  _ had _ wanted Alexander as his eromenos. The question of whether out of desire or greed would never be answered. All those rumours of Philip being Ptolemy’s real father had begun to grow stronger after Alexander and Hephaestion had grown close. Before that, Ptolemy had never encouraged the rumours, he had actually denied them. He had been trying to make up for his loss of face by linking himself to Alexander in another way.

“I know you mean to Alexander more than anyone can understand. I know you are intertwined in a sort of…” he paused, looking down and biting his lower lip, “undeniably complex way. I have seen you argue without saying a word, and making up with a gesture.”

Before Hephaestion had time to deny and start to find a way out of this conversation, Ptolemy sat up and put his hand out, taking his upper arm in a tight grip.

“So if you feel like your blood is bubbling inside you and you want to scratch your eyes out, it means he is not gone, Hephaestion,” he said, tightening his grip even more, “it means he is there, burning your blood and scratching from the other side.”

Hephaestion stared. He simply stared, dumbfounded at the simple logic of those words. He had always thought there was something inside him that  _ knew _ when Alexander was hurting. Several times over the years, he had put that thought to the test. The first tries had been too direct, too easy to confirm or deny. But on his test number five, he had confirmed what he thought since his youth. One day he had woken, in the middle of Sogdiana, cold and numb in his legs and arms, a feeling of emptiness in his stomach. He knew then Alexander had been hurt, and he had immediately written and dispatched a letter to the front where Alexander was currently fighting. The letter he received in return, from Alexander himself, said he was out of danger after quickly healing from a wound to the shoulder. Only later would Hephaestion find out, after they had found their way towards each other, that the wound had been deep and had partly healed, leaving a scar. Alexander had smiled at him and told him it was just another war prize to display. But from then on, Hephaestion paid attention to his intuition.

He breathed out, letting his shoulders drop. It had been thirty hours since he paid attention to his muscles. He was numb, but it wasn’t a specific numbness. There was no emptiness in his stomach except something that spoke of hunger. His legs were not cold, neither were his arms. He felt Ptolemy’s grip like he would feel any other sensation. No different tingle, no goosebumps on his skin. 

He looked straight at Ptolemy, focusing on his nose and breathing the air around him slowly. Between the wailing outside the tent and the cold wind seeping from under the hides, he smelt some kind of burning wood, slightly aromatic. For the first time in thirty hours, he heard the nearby river with its constant flow. He heard the chirping of the crickets and the soft step of some animal on the underbrush. Somewhere, far away, an elephant trumpeted.

Hephaestion closed his eyes and breathed out.

Yes, he knew it. Alexander was alive.


	2. Lachesis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can picture Hephaestion however you like but I've always thought him capable (and proud) of standing up to Alexander in words, thoughts and actions.  
> I believe a personality such as Alexander would appreciate a bit of sass and role reversal, as well as a matching intensity.
> 
> Just wanted to let that out.

He was fuming. He was not going to show it anytime soon, but his men knew it as well as he. They kept their distance, breaking apart as he walked by, standing to attention without being called, even leaving their places near the fire as they saw him coming from afar. They were loyal to him, and for that, he was grateful. 

Craterus had never been one to take sides, nor did he think certain men deserved better than others. He understood the Fates were in charge of every mortal and allotted what was adequate to every character. He had never doubted the gods and their mysterious ways, he was a man of strong convictions. If he fell, it was to learn how to cure his bruises. If he failed, it was to understand how to do it better next time.

But this situation was getting out of hand.

He slowed down his pace, aware of the pain in his wounded leg at walking too fast towards the river. He was almost upon it now, and the mass of soldiers across it were noisy and too high-spirited for an army. Wine was clearly flowing across the river in Hephaestion’s camp. From whence had it come, Craterus would never know.

He stood almost on the verge of the river now, his men behind him wrapped in a silence that contrasted with the clamor across them. 

It had been three days since the news about Alexander’s wound, and rumoured death, had arrived. Shock and fear had given way to debauchery and violence. These men were not only drunk, they were also close to rioting. If there was one thing an army knew, it was when the chain of command broke. One shaky order from a Commander or a General, and pandemonium would erupt.

Craterus was weighing in his mind the probability of his men's survival in the case of a clash with a rioting army when he saw across the river a gap opening in the chaotic tumult of the men. Clear shouts could be heard, repeating something over and over, trying to gain precedence in the thick of it all.

His own men were now around him, trying to decipher if the commotion would cross the river and develop into something more dangerous or not.

“I think… I think that’s  _ the _ General,” Craterus heard one of the foot soldiers say behind him.

And suddenly, a big shout came from across and after that, gradual silence got hold of the entirety of Hephaestion’s camp. Craterus’ men were also silent, too aware of their position to draw any attention to themselves. Only the sound of the steady river kept its volume, separating the two camps and the two sides of the army.

And suddenly, out of the silence, came Hephaestion’s voice.

“If I hear anyone else make a toast for the demise of your King, I promise you I won’t give him a quick death as the one I gave to Euphranor!”

Craterus was taken aback. He had never heard Hephaestion shout. Not shout words such as these, nor in the tone they were expressed, he had never heard him shout, ever. Hephaestion would throw fists and push hard instead of raising his voice. It was one of the things that made him dangerous. If Alexander exploded in words and shouts when things were heated, Hephaestion slowly advanced, eyes down, and before you knew it you had a black eye and a vague idea of your name. He was as explosive as Alexander but without the possibility for recoil.

The voice Craterus had just heard was not unlike Alexander’s, and yet completely different. There was something in the potency and enunciation of the words that chilled him to the bone. Alexander had a tendency to berate harshly, only to retreat and wait for reason from the berated party. There was something akin to benevolence in Alexander that made men like him and respect him, even when being berated. 

But this… this voice was cold. And under the coldness, there was pure, untamed rage.

Before Craterus had time to react, a gap between the men across the river opened, and through it bursted Hephaestion, eyes looking straight ahead, burning with the same rage that possessed his voice. There was complete silence as he advanced towards the river, his sword in his right hand and in his left…

Craterus took a step back, a motion that most of his men around him mirrored. Above, the sun came out from between the clouds and shone down upon the flowing river, making it almost blinding to stare across it. But Craterus and his men’s eyes were glued to the other side of the river.

Hephaestion stood still, too far away to determine whether he was quivering with rage or not, but still too close at hand to even begin to doubt his intensity.

He raised his left arm toward the river, raising with it the severed head of the one he had named as Euphranor, one of the men of his own agema. Blood dripped unto the shining river, Euphranor’s open blank eyes stared straight ahead. Craterus heard behind him a quiet, rushed prayer to Charon, the ferryman of the dead in the river Styx.

“This goes for you, too!” shouted Hephaestion in the same cold, rage-filled voice.

He looked down the river, staring at Craterus’ men with eyes dark as Koronos, the cave where Dionysus was hidden as an infant. 

No sound came from the men in either camp as Hephaestion threw the severed head into the river, turned on his heels and walked back towards his tent.

Later that night and amid his quiet men, Craterus understood the words Perdiccas had once whispered after a lengthy, troublesome, and quickly dissolved Council session back in Bactra.

“Better to be roared at by the lion than to be silently stinged by the scorpion”.

* * *

He could smell the Chalcedonian lilies. Their faintly citric aroma made him realize how thirsty he was.

Back in Mieza, when the lilies were in bloom, he would always get a parched mouth at the smell of them. Hephaestion would poke fun at him for being too sensitive to certain aromas and impervious to some others. The smell of blood had never made him flinch, but if someone stepped on a wild berry from across a forest, he would know.

Hephaestion always collected berries when they got lost around Mieza. He used to say it was to keep him at bay. More than once he remembers gagging with disgust as they lay side by side, crushed berries under him. Hephaestion would chortle loudly until he lost his breath, realizing he had forgotten about the berries in the midst of their passion.

The lilies were too close. His lips were cracked with thirst.

Where was he? He felt like he was floating, half his body underwater. Maybe he had fallen into the river. The lilies used to grow close to the river. Their red color would be the first thing he saw in spring as he broke the river surface and came up for breath. Their petals hanging down, almost kissing the dew-filled ground.

Hephaestion had once told him the lilies also made him thirsty. He had laughed back then, certain his friend was playing a rough game with him. But Hephaestion had not laughed back, he had stared at him deadly serious. They were sprawled on their backs close to the river, alone at last after a long day of lessons. Hephaestion had blushed and whispered to him something about how his reddish hair hung down when he laughed and looked at the ground, just like the lilies. He couldn’t quite remember the words. But he remembered the look Hephaestion had fixed on him, full of a stripped down feeling he would begin to decipher then and continue to decipher for years to come. His lover had a way of attaching meaning to objects and moments in such a way that took his breath away. The philosopher in him lived next to the warrior, and across the tactician. He liked to think they were alike in that sense. They weren’t afraid to explore different aspects of themselves.

He opened his parched lips slowly. Why couldn’t he feel his left arm? He needed some water.

“He’s trying to speak!” came a shout from his right side, shrill and too loud for his taste. It ringed inside his skull, painfully ricocheting around it.

He felt a couple of hands in his lower chest, he heard some quick steps somewhere to his left. He knew there was a brazier close at hand, or maybe two, he could feel the heat. Or was it his own heat?

“My King, don’t exert yourself, you are weak,” came a voice from somewhere. He knew that voice but couldn’t quite put a face to it. He had said ‘My King’, but… wasn’t he in Mieza and his father sat on the throne in Pella? Why was this voice calling him ‘My King’?

“He’s feverish, he needs something for the pain,” another voice, this time around it sounded too similar to Lysimachus’. But Lysimachus’ voice wasn’t that deep.

“Alexander, you need to rest,” yet another voice, and this was definitely Leonnatus, the same long vowels he used while speaking.

He felt a hand on the back of his neck, propping him up slightly. A cold object was pressed softly to his lips. Finally, water. He opened his lips, realizing how difficult it was for him to move them at all, and in between them came a cool draught that tasted like ambrosia to him. It wasn’t water, it was something more salty. But to his parched lips and dry mouth, nothing could have been more heavenly.

He was softly laid down onto his pillow, and he felt sleep claiming him in the sudden numbness of body, even stronger than the one before. He felt completely at ease, mind wandering without direction.

What had Aristotle once said? “The mind wanders if the body…” something about the body doing something. He couldn’t remember. It was something that he related to politics. The three correct constitutional forms he had always had trouble remembering. Kingship, aristocracy, and…

They had found a waterfall and Hephaestion was laughing. Alexander kept trying to remember the damned constitutional forms but he couldn’t. The waterfall wasn’t that tall but Hephaestion had dared him to climb up and, if he remembered the three constitutional forms, he had promised to push him down to the lake without prior notice. Alexander liked the idea of not knowing when or where he was falling, but Hephaestion was too intellectual to push him without a reason. 

“Kingship, aristocracy, and… Zeus take me, I know what it is!” he shouted, exasperated at himself and slightly angry at a still laughing Hephaestion.

“Don’t tempt Zeus, you are petite enough for him to take you,” Hephaestion said mockingly, aware of the anger he would provoke.

Alexander felt color rising up his chest. He hated being called small or delicate, he was a warrior, not a princess. Hephaestion was standing arrogantly in front of him, hands in his hips. He was about to burst out in anger against Hephaestion, when he felt a hard push in the left side of his chest and then he was falling back.

He struggled to catch his breath. There was something on his left side. He kept falling but he couldn’t feel or hear the water under him. Was the waterfall at his feet or above his head? Was the sky up or down?

“The men in camp think he is dead, Peithon. They won’t sleep without their weapons until they see him breathing in front of them,” a voice, across the distance.

Hephaestion had held his hand under the water. He remembers him pulling him down underwater and kissing him hard. When they had come up for air, the smell of the lilies rushed upon them. For the first time in a long time, he wanted to taste a wild berry.

“He is not fit to move, Leonnatus. He is not even conscious. I think he’s been hallucinating,” Peithon’s voice sounded, muffled by the noise of the waterfall.

He wanted a wild berry. And he wanted Hephaestion.

He remembers once staring at his lover’s back, under the early morning light. He was sleeping on his side, facing away from him. Alexander had counted every tiny freckle in that back, retracing its way once finished to count again. He didn’t want to touch him, he was afraid he might wake. But those moments stayed on his mind for years, and sometimes he pictured that back and counted those freckles when there was too much around him, stretching him thin.

What was the damned third constitutional form? Where was Hephaestion? He knew it by heart.

“They will revolt, Peithon. They will turn on each other,” Leonnatus voice was closer now, almost next to him. “Peithon… even  _ he _ thinks he’s dead.”

His mother had once said he needed to send Hephaestion away. He was too feisty. 

That night, after telling Hephaestion what his mother had said, they had laughed until their sides hurt. His feisty mother trying to make him send feisty Hephaestion away. Even the gods appreciated a good joke.

Twenty two. He remembered the number. Who cared about Aristotle’s third constitutional form? Hephaestion had twenty two freckles down his back. His favorite one was on his right shoulder.

He suddenly felt cold. From across a valley, someone shouted a battle paean. He looked to his right and saw a flowing river. A severed head came floating by. Trailing behind it, a pink hue in the water. 

It smelt of lilies.

“Peithon… Hephaestion thinks Alexander’s dead,” a whisper.

He had stepped on some berries. The smell was pungent. He looked around, certain he would find Hephaestion behind him, laughing softly. But instead, there was a beach stretching past him and on it were rows upon rows of crucified men. 

He wasn’t dead. He knew he wasn’t.

He opened his parched lips, tasting the ashes of the burning Palace of Persepolis. There he was, his father, looking down at him and telling him a King never falters. Behind him was his sister, Cleopatra, dark hair falling around her round face. To her right was Heracles, Barsine’s son. He was never sure if he was his or not. But his eyes said he wasn’t. They were all staring at him. From across the vast expanse of the dry land, dead and alive stared.

And suddenly, he remembered.

It was pitch dark, the only light came from the moon filtering through the window. The sound of the sea was close, air humid and thick with salt. If he could choose one place to die, this would be it. The room was small, barely even proper for sleeping quarters. There was a small bed in the corner, a simple wooden frame.

Hephaestion was standing in front of the window, looking back at him. His eyes shined brightly in the pale light that illuminated him from the side, cool wind making his hair dance. Alexander felt a fire inside him stronger than the immense sea and its tides. He wanted the world and the world wanted him back, but this was all he  _ needed _ .

“Polity, my love,” Hephaestion whispered, a smile slowly taking over his face, eyes softening, arms opening and reaching out. “That’s the third constitutional form”.

Alexander walked slowly towards his open arms, unsure how old he was or where he had come from. 

And as he encircled Hephaestion with his arms, slowly caressing his twenty-two-freckled back, he felt a strong, violent pull in his sternum that lifted him up abruptly into a seating position.

He opened his eyes and saw the red lilies at the foot of the Royal Bed.

Next to him, Peithon and Leonnatus stared dumbfounded, eyes piercing into Alexander in sheer terror. Alexander stared back, breathing slowly. 

Before either of them could utter a word, Alexander issued the order.

“Get me on my ship and bring me to Hephaestion. And for the love of all the gods, get me some wild berries.”


	3. Atropos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You will find several references to myths in this chapter and I will add notes at the end if you care to know a bit more and understand the references.
> 
> Thanks for reading so far and hope you enjoy this last chapter :)

The intense Indian heat sometimes took him back to Aigai, to the moment when his life had changed completely. During his long marches through unseen territories, he had made it a habit to dive often into the philosophical exercise of speculation. He would analyze and wonder what would have happened if his father had not been assassinated. He thought about the type of life he would have lived after being recalled from exile and presented again as heir to the throne. Would his father have left him behind with Antipater and his mother as he marched to Asia? 

Had he proved himself worthy at Chaeronea? Or had he proved himself _too_ worthy?

The sound of the oars against the river reminded him of the day when he had stopped wondering if he was worthy of being his father’s son or not. Eight long years ago, he had finally crossed the Hellespont after working hard to leave a stable Macedon and Greece behind, or as stable as it would get. On the prow of his ship, he had looked ahead towards new and yet old land, ships full of his men behind him. He had stared straight ahead, not daring to look back. He had felt like Orpheus[¹], suspicious that Hades had deceived him into believing he could have it all. If he looked back, everything would vanish and disappear into the Underworld.

He felt a soft cloth against his face, wind playing with his hair.

“We’re almost there, Alexander. We’ll be there before sundown,” whispered Peucestas in his ear, “The army will be ecstatic to see you, my King. Rest now”.

It had to be the cloth he ordered his men to set around him in a makeshift tent on the prow of the trireme traveling down the Hydraotes river. The heat took his breath away, making the pain on his left side sting sharply. There were so many things he wanted to do. Pain was not an incumbent, but the shortness of breath exasperated him.

He kept drifting in and out of sleep, like he used to back when he was younger. Aristotle used to call him out in the middle of long lectures about morality and spirit, catching him nodding off due to lack of a proper full-night sleep. Occasionally his teacher would utter the phrase all his Friends would imitate and make fun of behind his back: “Would you rather be doing something else?”

At first it had been the change of pace for him. Accustomed to life at Pella, days at Mieza seemed endless and painfully slow for him, even with Aristotle as his tutor. He would never admit it, but he had missed his mother. Her endless paranoia had always been part of his life at the Palace, even when he had joined the Royal Pages in their training and duties, out of more curiosity than custom. His life between the Page’s barracks, training grounds, gymnasium, Court hearings and occasional interactions with his father or mother and their endless intrigues had always kept him busy. Aristotle and his Friends sometimes appeared dull in comparison, no matter how high were the levels of the philosophical discussions.

That had been before Hephaestion had started speaking up in lessons. After that, the dullness had gradually turned into flickering electricity. There was no question Hephaestion asked that did not plunge them into a deep, convoluted answer from his Master. And the more he asked, the more others dared to speak up. Even the older boys had felt the sparks in the air.

After that, he would drift in and out of sleep at night but for a different reason. It would take a whole year for him to realize the reason and some months for the reason to realize it, too. 

A summer had changed it all for _them_. Him and Hephaestion. A summer by the river, drifting in and out of the water, lazily discovering how much was enough… or wasn’t. By the end of that summer, there was a whole new list of reasons for him to lose sleep at night. 

He was drifting in the water now and through the pain, he felt _him_.

“We’ll be there in less than an hour, Alexander”, said Leonnatus from somewhere to his right, “Your men are waiting for you, my King. You’ll hear their welcome before you see them”.

He knew his men were waiting, afraid and expectant, and yet calculating how much they could grab and run away with if the opportunity arose. No man in camp would mind if he died, not really. They would mourn his passing out of respect and fear, maybe even something close to appreciation. 

But he knew _one_ of his men would mind. 

Across the space that separated them, he felt Hephaestion’s pain. He wanted to believe he wasn’t the cause of it, but he knew he was. Something inside him grew and took hold of him at that knowledge. The price of love was constant pain at the possibility of losing the other. He knew what it was, he had felt it before, sometimes sharper than anything else. It started somewhere on the back of his head, traveled down his chest and took hold of his heart in a death-like grip. His limbs would freeze and his lungs would appear to shrink inside him, each breath a victim to panic. The mere thought of losing Hephaestion hurt more than a hundred arrows to his chest.

He remembers the few occasions when that kind of pain took hold of him. The first time, right after defeating Darius in Gaugamela, it had come at him in a wave taller than the walls of Babylon. He had walked into the space where all wounded were gathered and had instantly known Hephaestion was there. He couldn’t remember how long it took him, but finally he had found Hephaestion at the back of one of the many tents where the wounded were being tended, his right arm half-bandaged and bloody. He had dismissed the doctor and finished bandaging him in silence, breathing painfully throughout. 

That night, after having fought his largest and most important battle, he hadn’t slept a wink. He had lain alone on his new Royal Bed, King of the Greatest Empire, and yet he felt one sharp pain pushing through him. All the longing and the glory, the revenge and the triumph were nothing to him if he was alone. 

He could get spectators anywhere, interested parties would appear out of nowhere if he turned his back. But without one, just one, real friend beside him, all tasted of ashes.

Suddenly, he smelled something akin to cinnamon in the air, he was sure he could smell burning wood, too. The constant splashing of the oars grew in volume, gradually taking a different quality in Alexander’s mind.

He opened his eyes slowly, adjusting to the brightness of the translucent cloth around him. He could see shapes beyond the cloth, moving back and forth, lances at the ready. Even in his own ship, traveling down a conquered territory, his Royal Guards were vigilant.

The wind picked up abruptly and with it, the sound of the oars changed again. The water was whispering. Perhaps the river had come to fight with him, too, like the river Scamander had fought Achilles[²] outside Troy. But Achilles had been distraught back then, he was mad with grief and loss after losing Patroclus.

Alexander hadn’t lost, the river had no reason to fight him. He was not grieving, he was healing and finding his way back to where he belonged. Not a place, but a person. 

He hadn’t lost Patroclus. He would make sure he would _never_ lose him.

And suddenly, the whispering became clear in his mind, separating itself from the sound of the oars. The wind had stopped and the sound came clear and loud. They were nearing camp, the men were shouting.

Alexander sighed and stared at the blue sky beyond the translucent cloth above him. There was nothing to be afraid of. The gods were with him.

The cloth parted at his side and Peithon’s face came through it. He smiled when he saw Alexander awake.

“We are nearing camp, Alexander,” he said softly, the smile never leaving his lips. “But I bet you already knew that.”

He had crossed river after river, mountain after mountain, just to keep the mortal panic at bay. Nothing could stop him from going further, chasing away the mists and the rains, reaching for more and more light. 

And he felt the exhilaration, the same way he had felt it when his father had lain on the floor of the theater, dead eye looking up at the blue sky. In that moment, the pain of losing his father had mixed with the pure elation of all the possibilities unfolding before him. He had known back then there would be blood, but he had been willing to spill it. And spill it he had, time and time again, his own and others. 

And as he heard the shouting unite into a single word, rising from the distance, he felt the ecstasy of being known, however abstract or crooked. For understanding, he had one man; for glory he had the world.

“Aléxandros! Aléxandros! Aléxandros!” the shout came sharp and steady, full of emotion. He pictured his men, lined up down the river, trying to reach the front to see whether he was alive or dead, praying to all gods for the former. And he could picture Hephaestion behind them, close to the tents, silent and grave, praying to all the gods for the same.

He would always be traveling towards one man, but if the world was there to welcome him as well, Zeus help him if he spurned them. 

Love was one thing, glory another. 

* * *

The throngs of men had subsided and dispersed, along with the Indian heat. He was standing on the stern of one of Nearchus’ triremes, looking back at the land of rivers behind him lost in the early shadows of the sunset. This land was too prosperous to be peaceful for long, he knew they would revolt as easily as they had resisted. The administrator in him wanted to raise the anchor and leave immediately, looking for resources ahead and not behind. The General in him wanted to dwell and punish all revolts without mercy. And the lover in him wanted to shout and tear at his hair. 

The moment Alexander had raised his hand from where he was lying on his ship, curtains around him parted by two of his Royal Bodyguards, he had remembered what it was to breathe. But when the ship had touched shore and they had to lift him along with the bed in a makeship palanquin, he had felt his blood drop to his feet.

He had stayed put, looking straight at his King without breaking formation. His men around him were in an ecstatic state, not unlike to Dionysian madness. The wine had helped, Ptolemy had been right about that. Trust a drunk soldier to revolt at a mere rumour but embrace his King again at the first sight of him.

Peithon and Leonnatus had tried to open some space between the euphoric men so they could transport Alexander to his tent, but had failed entirely. The men had crowded dangerously around the palanquin, pushing each other to get to the front. As Hephaestion had begun to contemplate his intervention, all sense had left him at Alexander’s reaction. He had opened the curtain himself and demanded a horse to ride.

Hephaestion could only remember Ptolemy reaching out for him and catching his arm in a deadly grip. He had felt blood rushing back into his head so quickly, he had almost fainted. As he saw the horse approaching Alexander and him pushing his Bodyguards away to ride it, he had nearly unsheathed his sword and cut Ptolemy’s hand off of him. 

He had trembled so intensely, his horse under him began to panic. It had taken Ptolemy, Perdiccas and newly arrived Lysimachus to restrain him.

He had been fuming. The intensity of his rage had surprised even himself.

Alexander was white as a sheet, weak as a newborn, and yet he had to - he just _had to_ \- do that.

All the love and the pain, the long days without sleep, drink or food came crashing down on him. In that instant, he couldn’t care less what the men thought or felt, he didn’t care if this reunion was as emotional to them as it was to him. His King, his _Alexander_ , had been close to death for days and they had almost revolted against him. They weren’t even sure he was gone and they had written to their long-forgotten Macedonian wives to light the hearth for them. He knew they had, he had intercepted letters.

And Alexander was now wasting the energy he needed to recover to pacify _them_. He was sitting straight on his horse, pain hidden behind his eyes, just to make them believe he forgot their treason.

He had been so infuriated at that moment, he had turned to Ptolemy and spat out “I’ll go check on Nearchus and the rest of the fleet. Get _him_ to my tent and make him lie down even if you have to tie him to the bed.”

He had left and hadn’t come back. He had fulfilled his duty and done what had to be done by a second-in-command, all that long, boring work of supervision.

Standing on the ship looking towards the conquered and bloodied land, he wondered what lay at his back. Would they reach the Ocean and get back to Central Persia as easily as Alexander thought? Alexander had always been good at dreaming, sometimes _too_ good. Hephaestion had always taken pride in his rationality, his ability to see the broader - sometimes colder - side to Alexander’s dreams.

He wasn’t too sure about the men anymore. He wasn’t too sure about the available resources ahead anymore. Hades, he wasn’t too sure about his fellow Generals anymore.

How could he trust Alexander’s dreams when he wasn’t even sure of the idea of “ _Alexander_ ” anymore?

The “Alexander” the men saw was brave, fated to rule, unbreakable. But Alexander, the real Alexander, was nothing like that. Hephaestion saw him, behind the wall he had created to display an ideal, he saw the real Alexander.

He saw him tiptoeing his way across their room at Mieza, afraid to wake him before he could crawl under his sheets and put his cold feet on his shins to wake him abruptly, only to laugh at his reaction. He saw him hiding behind an old chest in one of the upper rooms at Pella, trying to hide his tears after playing his lyre in front of his father and being shunned by him. 

He saw the real Alexander, the one who would sleep two hours each night because there were “too many things to do while conquering”. The one who would deny himself the best dishes in every feast only to send them to his Friends. The same one who would dismiss eunuchs, pages, guards and attendants just to wrap his arms around Hephaestion and ask “when was the last time we were alone in the same room?”

The “Alexander” the men saw was the one who had asked to be transported by ship down an Indian river to prove he was alive. The Alexander Hephaestion knew had done the same but to come and show him an arrow could never separate them.

“Stop throwing a fit, Hephaestion,” came a voice at his back. He sighed and turned around, already knowing he would encounter a mocking Perdiccas, “he needs to see you as much as you need to see him.”

Perdiccas was leaning nonchalantly against the main mast, arms crossed. He was looking at Hephaestion without blinking, eyebrows raised in an exasperated gesture.

“You both can be so thick-headed. You know he loves being recognized and pampered by everyone,” Perdiccas said matter-of-factly. Hephaestion was about to comment on that but was cut short. “But you also know he loves _you_ more than that.”

Hephaestion stared at him, trying not to show emotion on his face. Out of all the King’s Royal Bodyguards, Perdiccas was the closest he had to a real friend. He had always been honest with him, keeping intrigues and backstabbing to the minimum possible level. His taunting did not come from a place of mockery or envy, or not as high as would be expected in a political arena such as the one they lived in.

He was thankful to him, but he wasn’t about to show it. He was still too furious to try and have a proper interaction with anyone but the reason for his fury.

“Go,” whispered Perdiccas, rolling his eyes at him. “He’s waiting for you and you know it.”

Hephaestion felt a cold wind rising at his back, making the hair on the back of his head stand on end. He turned around and saw a hypaspist soldier on the deserted side of the river. All men were now on this side, Craterus had crossed in order to welcome the king. The man, younger than him but clearly experienced in war, stared at him. He was holding his shield in front of him and Hephaestion thought he saw behind it a blood-stained chiton. They hadn’t engaged in any fighting for weeks, why was he wounded?  
  
Hephaestion let his gaze travel back into the man’s face and when they locked eyes, he felt the skin of his lower back crawl with premonition. This man wasn’t alive. He was waiting for Charon to cross into Hades.

“By Apollo’s dick, just go to him, Hephaestion!” Perdiccas yelled at him, exasperated. Hephaestion looked back at him, disorientated for a moment. The sun had properly set now and Perdiccas was in shadows before him. Abruptly, Hephaestion felt sad for him. He was a good man and not too long in the future, he would find out the _others_ weren’t.

“Would you stop looking at me like you are Cassandra[³] and you just saw Troy burn for the thirteen time?” Perdiccas chuckled nervously, clearly off-put by Hephaestion’s expression, “... if you don’t stop staring at me, I will go to him and tell him you’re with a woman.”

Hephaestion blinked, aware of the men lightning fires at the river’s edge to keep watch over the fleet. He was afraid to look behind him and find the hypaspist gone. He was equally afraid of looking back and finding he was still there, staring at him

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath in, fighting the premonition away. May the gods spare him the pain of leaving behind the ones who loved him. He slowly breathed out and opened his eyes again.

“Lead the way, Perdiccas,” he said softly, “I don’t think I remember how I got here or how to get back.”

Perdiccas looked him up and down, now more visible to Hephaestion by the fires lit at the shore. His expression was unsure and a bit bleak, but before Hephaestion could say another word, he nodded and simply said, “Follow me.”

Hephaestion went through the mental exercise his father taught him when young as he followed Perdiccas across camp. He focused all his attention on one spot, in this case Perdiccas left hand, and began counting. His father had once told him he could be intense in his feelings, and if they ever threatened to overwhelm him he could always take back control by focusing. It had been an advice he would follow all his life. And right now, he needed to regain control.

He also needed to sleep, finally sleep _properly_ , but that was another matter.

He could feel the shuffling around him. Men would stand at attention at the sight of him, the last incident at the river fresh in their memory along with the image of the severed head. Fear was not respect nor love, but Hephaestion found both respect and love too personal. Unlike Alexander, he prefered to be feared.

He was sure they had been walking for a month before they reached _his_ tent. Ptolemy had followed his orders, for once. The King had been put to bed quickly. If the men behind his back snickered at the choosing of his own bed against the Royal Bed that was just being set up… well, let’s just say Hephaestion had proved he could sever a head in one clean stroke.

Perdiccas stood aside to let him pass, but before Hephaestion could take another step, he took his arm.

“Be gentle with him,” he whispered, looking into his eyes pleadingly. Hephaestion stared back, unsure what he was getting at, “some Generals have already come and… chastised him over his actions. He doesn’t need more lectures.”

“No, he needs a smack in the head and maybe even a good proper beating,” whispered Hephaestion, the embers of anger still in his stomach.

“I mean it, Hephaestion,” whispered Perdiccas, trying to keep the words from carrying across to the Guards and retinue outside the tent. “I was there when they reproached him…”

“When Craterus reproached him, you mean.”

“Ok, yes…” he rolled his eyes, “when Craterus reproached his actions and explained to him how that looked to the army.”

Hephaestion snorted. He could care more about the price of grain in Athens than about how Alexander nearly _dying_ looked to the army. Trust Craterus to think about that and then, four days later, about Alexander.

“Just…” Perdiccas released his arm, shrugging, “just don’t come down on him too harshly. He needs a friend now, not a General.”

Hephaestion stared at him, silently raising a prayer to Hermes, the luck-bringer. Perdiccas deserved all the luck and cunning the gods could give to survive the nest of vipers they lived next to. He surely deserved all the good things the gods were willing to give.

“I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed,” whispered Perdiccas, “take your time.”

Hephaestion nodded, thanking Perdiccas silently and patting him on the arm as he walked past him and into the tent.

As he crossed the second flap of his tent, he smelled the strong scent of frankincense and saffron. Even in convalescence and in Hephaestion’s tent, Alexander had to have his way.

He was met by a crowd of onlookers that, maybe in another life, served as doctors. Someone had put up a cloth division between his work table and his bed, visually separating the two. All the doctors and attendants, along with Eumenes, were seated at the table, looking at each other in silent tension.

For a couple of seconds, none looked at Hephaestion, too caught in their own inner battle for prominence as the “one who would cure the King of Kings” to notice his entry into his own tent. It was only after Eumenes caught sight of him by the corner of his eye and stood up, that they all followed and got to their feet, nodding towards Hephaestion and acknowledging his presence. After this, they all stood glued to their spots, unsure how to proceed now that the second-in-command of the army was present. Eumenes was the only one waiting, perhaps a bit too tensely, for Hephaestion’s orders.

“You are dismissed,” said Hephaestion softly, aware that only a bit of cloth separated them from the wounded King, “all of you.”

Eumenes turned his head so quickly, Hephaestion heard a bone crack. He was about to open his mouth to retort when Hephaestion won him to it, “Good night. I will call on the King’s doctor if needed.”

Eumenes face went red, aware that Hephaestion had noticed Philip’s, the King’s chosen personal doctor, absence. Hephaestion was sure Eumenes had helped in that respect, no doubt wanting to gain prominence by choosing _himself_ the doctor that would provide a cure for the King’s pains.

But still, he wasn’t dumb. Eumenes nodded again to Hephaestion and silently ushered out the doctors and attendants, following them out himself without a word. It was only after Hephaestion heard the tent flap fall behind them and the guards standing in attention at their exit that he breathed out the air he had been keeping in his lungs.

He didn’t need to find another reason to be angry at the moment. He knew he didn’t need to look for another reason, really. Thousands of reasons always surrounded Alexander. He was just too… much. Too much for their tiny little minds to comprehend. Of course they would all try to get close and prod, whisper, stab and even poison. It would be suspicious if they didn’t.

“Heph…” he heard a soft, throaty whisper from across the dividing cloth. The breath went out before he could finish his name.

And in that second, all his wrath, frustration and dismay went out of him, traveling down his back and dropping like a dead weight to the carpet under him. He felt his eyes burning with unshed tears.

He couldn’t even say his full name. He didn’t have the strength.

Hephaestion parted the diving cloth slowly and looked towards his bed. Alexander was lying on his back, the heavy coverlet at his feet, only a simple sheet covering his lower body. His torso was visible, along with the white cloth around his upper chest that hid his wound. His left side was not visible to Hephaestion, but he could see a small stain there: recently dried blood. 

He couldn’t look him in the eye. He was afraid to find the same blank eyes the hypaspist from across the river fixed on him. Dead eyes. 

“I should have been there,” the words came out from his throat, shocking even him. He heard the words but couldn’t remember opening his mouth. The voice was low and rough, full of despair.

He couldn’t breath.

He saw movement at the corner of his eye. Alexander had turned his head towards him and had raised his right hand. He was beckoning to him.

Hephaestion felt like the ground had opened under him. He was sure he was falling but his body had not moved an inch. The intensity of the feeling swept over him and knocked out the little breath he still had in his lungs. He saw himself move instead of feeling his legs work. It was like seeing himself in a dream, knowing it was him but not making the full connection.

And then he felt the soft carpet under his knees, the same carpet that had once been inside the Royal Tent and that Alexander had gifted him after one special night when they had argued about luxury and taste. They always grew argumentative after love, and that night had ended in Alexander demanding he accept the carpet as a gift. There was no defying Alexander when he got in that state, and Hephaestion had finally conceded to the gift. 

He had thrown himself upon that carpet now, face to the sheets on the bed. He was clutching at Alexander’s hand like a lifeline. He felt lost at sea, only sure about this hand and nothing else. Alexander’s left hand was on his hair, gently stroking.

Alexander’s breath came in short bursts, noisily ending in a sputter. Hephaestion’s breath was also coming in short bursts, but for him, it was the sobbing that made it difficult to inhale.

He saw the rivers again, flowing behind him and getting lost in fog and darkness. He heard the sound of unknown carrion-eating beasts, always following them, never losing sight of the children in camp. The crows were for the battlefields, the unnamed beasts preyed upon their young.

Hephaestion felt an unnamed terror biting the back of his neck. This was no beast, this was an entity. The hand enveloped by his own was warm, clutching him back as strongly as ever, yet he felt himself grow cold as each second passed. 

What if Alexander had died back there? What if no one had come to help him? 

What if the crows had pecked out his eyes while the nameless beasts lurked in the back, waiting for their share of meat?

“I’m here, soul of my soul. I’m right here,” Alexander’s small whisper filled his ears, making Echo play around with the words inside his mind. If he had to suffer Echo’s fate[⁴] for him, he would. If he was doomed to repeat his very words, he would do it for all eternity.

“Come here, Heph...aestion,” he had to take a short breath right in the middle of his name, and Hephaestion thought he might die if he never heard his name in his full voice. 

He _needed_ him. Such a simple concept yet so utterly painful.

Hephaestion raised his head, letting one hand reach out to touch Alexander’s side. He laid his open palm on his chest, feeling it rapidly rise and fall with each breath. He closed his eyes, letting the sensation of his warmth and breath fill him up entirely. He would never part from him again, Zeus be his witness, only death would part them next.

He opened his eyes and slowly moved his open palm up, eyes following the movement. He caressed his clavicle, slowly making his way to his neck, tracing his way up into his chin. He stopped his hand and eyes at his lips, relishing in the simple form. They were slightly parched, but still the same he remembered memorizing decades ago, when exploration had been a game for them. He continued up his long nose, slightly crooked after he broke it at some battle. He traveled down one side to trace his cheekbone with his finger, wanting to implant its form inside his own skin. 

And finally, he came to his eyes. He had to pause to catch his breath. The gaze Alexander had fixed on him was piercing enough to make him forget all responsibilities, duties and ranks. He truly had the most marvelous transparent eyes. Not grey, not blue, but transparent. The color of a brook in late spring, a reminder of the strength of nature in its steady flow. 

“I said… come here, Heph…” he started, breath catching again in the middle of the name.

Before he had time to finish, Hephaestion was already on the bed, carefully shuffling his whole body above him to come lie at his left side. As he laid down his head, he saw the dried blood where his wound was eating his breath away. He wanted to see it, yet wanted to never think about it again.

He was here, he was alive. He would heal, he was strong.

There was nothing that could tear them apart. Not yet.

Not soon. _Please_ , not soon.

“If you ever, ever, and I mean _ever_ again think of sending me ahead or behind or above or below, I swear to all the gods that I will get the best bow and arrow of the empire and shoot you myself,” Hephaestion whispered into Alexander’s left ear, for once regaining control of his breath after releasing all the sobs his soul could not contain.

He supported his head on one arm, raising it above his King’s and staring straight down at him. With his other arm he enveloped his lower abdomen, careful not to brush his left side.

As he was carefully arranging himself to lie as close to him as he could without causing him more harm, he noticed Alexander’s breath started coming even faster than before. He was about to start panicking, afraid he had somehow caused him harm when he looked into his eyes and saw laughter in them.

“Are you laughing!?” he whispered angrily at him, happy to see mirth in his eyes yet too close to pain to not feel mad at him, “I am not joking, Adonis[⁵]! Unless you prefer me to gore you with a spear like the wild board you are!”

Alexander was openly snorting now, eyes watering with laughter. Hephaestion couldn’t help but stare adoringly at him, biting his tongue to stop himself from laughing in indignation and shared joy. 

“If I am Adonis, then…” he took a breath mid-way, no doubt also adding a pause to create expectation for an already expectact Hephaestion, “... then you are Aphrodite[⁶].”

Hephaestion snorted with derision, and was about to retort when Alexander told him with his eyes that he hadn’t finished speaking. 

Such a tyrant.

“And I will always…” another pause for effect, the little despot. “... always choose you before… anyone else.”

He finished with a smile, eyes softening while slightly raising his left arm to clutch at Hephaestion’s chiton. Hephaestion smiled back at him, unsure if there were words to answer him and prove to him how much he meant to him.

Without warning, Alexander swiftly raised his right arm and took a hold of Hephaestion’s head, pushing him down into an open mouthed kiss.

It was like breaking the surface of the water and breathing fresh air, finding it far sweeter than before. Nothing compared to the warmth of Alexander’s breath on his, the scent of saffron exuding from him quickly enveloping Hephaestion and making him dizzy. If he could fix one feeling for all eternity in his heart, this would be it.

They spent more than enough time on kissing and breaking apart for breath, only to kiss again more softly and consciously. They always parted breathless, but that had never been exclusive to shortness of breath due to injury or anxiety.

They finally broke apart only to lie as closely as they could, unsure how much time they had on their own before a whole retinue came bursting into their own little space.

“Promise me you will…” Alexander started, stopping suddenly. Hephaestion looked at him, unsure if the pain had suddenly increased or if he was afraid of speaking. Alexander was looking at the cloth above him, tent billowing with the wind. Suddenly he was far away, as he sometimes went when in deep thought. Hephaestion sometimes felt like he truly was not entirely human, perhaps half-divine if not fully-divine. 

“Promise me you will not… crush them in the midst… of passion,” he turned his head and looked straight at Hephaestion as he said those words, gaze intent and serious. Hephaestion looked at him, for once afraid that he might be in so much pain, his mind was playing tricks on him.

“I… promise,” he said slowly, unsure what to make of those words. 

Alexander narrowed his eyes at him as his right hand got under his pillow and retrieved something, hiding it behind a closed fist.

“You sycophant,” he whispered angrily, “don’t make a promise… you can’t keep.”

Hephaestion looked at him, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion. He was about to rise from the bed to call for a doctor when Alexander thrust his hand at his face and opened his fist.

Eventually, Hephaestion did rise and call for Philip, Alexander’s doctor, but a long time passed before that. 

In between, they found a way to properly kiss deeply without pausing for breath every ten seconds, and also found more than one way to quicken those breaths without it hurting too much. And if it hurt a bit, well, at least it also felt good.

The one thing they would always remember about that night was how amazingly Hephaestion failed at keeping his promise, something that rarely happened. After Alexander had opened his fist and dropped the wild berries into Hephaestion palm, he had promised again he would not crush them in the midst of passion.

As Hephaestion rose to look for the doctor and also looking for a way out of the problem of a retching Alexander next to some crushed berries, he knew he needed to find whoever had found those berries and maybe even kiss them on the lips. 

They deserved triple pay for the berries. And for the soft laughter coming from Alexander and the soft whispered “Don’t go, we… are not done yet”, Hephaestion was willing to pay them himself.

And if the rivers flowed backwards, he couldn’t care less. Alexander was alive, they were together again. They may not be complete, but then again they were there to complete each other. Through the pain and the love and the terror, everything was forgotten. Nothing remained but each other. 

All mortal fears would have to wait. Let death wait its turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [¹] Orpheus' was Apollo's son, and was taught by the god himself to play the lyre. Orpheus fell in love with Eurydice whom he married and lived happily with for a short time. One day, Aristaeus (a minor god) saw and pursued Eurydice, who stepped on a viper, was bitten, and died instantly. Orpheus played and sang so mournfully that all the nymphs and deities wept and told him to travel to the Underworld to retrieve her, which he gladly did. After his music softened the hearts of Hades and Persephone, he was allowed to take her back to the world of the living. The condition was attached that he must walk in front of her and not look back until both had reached the upper world. Soon he began to doubt that she was there, suspecting that Hades had deceived him. Just as he reached the portals of Hades and daylight, he turned around to gaze on her face, and because Eurydice had not yet crossed the threshold, she vanished back into the Underworld. 
> 
> [²] Achilles insulted and fought the river Scamander (or Xanthus) on Book XXI of the Iliad, seeking revenge upon the Trojans and gods after Hector (with Apollo's aid) slew Patroclus.
> 
> [³] Cassandra was a daughter to King Priam and Queen Hecuba and a Princess of Troy. She was given the gift of prophecy, but was also cursed by the god Apollo so that her true prophecies would not be believed. Cassandra foresaw the destruction of Troy and warned the Trojans but all her warnings were disregarded.
> 
> [⁴] Echo was a beautiful mountain nymph. Zeus loved consorting with nymphs and often visited them on Earth. Eventually, Zeus's wife, Hera, became suspicious, and came from Mount Olympus in an attempt to catch Zeus with the nymphs. Echo, by trying to protect Zeus (as he had ordered her to do), endured Hera's wrath, and Hera made her only able to speak the last words spoken to her. So when Echo met Narcissus and fell in love with him, she was unable to tell him how she felt and was forced to watch him as he fell in love with himself.
> 
> [⁵] Adonis was an extremely handsome youth and a lover of Aphrodite. One day, Adonis was gored by a wild boar during a hunting trip and died in Aphrodite's arms as she wept. His blood mingled with her tears and became the anemone flower.
> 
> [⁶] The goddess Aphrodite found Adonis as an infant and gave him to be raised by Persephone, the queen of the Underworld. Adonis grew into an astonishingly handsome young man, causing Aphrodite and Persephone to feud over him, with Zeus eventually decreeing that Adonis would spend one third of the year in the Underworld with Persephone, one third of the year with Aphrodite, and the final third of the year with whomever he chose. Adonis chose to spend his final third of the year with Aphrodite.
> 
> \--------------------------------------------------------
> 
> I've been thinking of continuing this and making it a series, but I have to check my schedule and see if I have the time to keep writing.  
> For now, know that I want to write more but, if I do in the end, it may take a while.
> 
> I appreciate hearing from you guys, so be sure to comment. I always answer all comments and try to answer questions and/or commentaries.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading this story, it was a true pleasure to write.

**Author's Note:**

> (Don't read this before reading the full story AKA the 3 chapters, might ruin the story if you're not familiar with it :P)
> 
> Historical background to the story :
> 
> During Alexander's trek to the south of India, towards the sea, he sent Hephaestion ahead down the Hydaspes river as commander of the main body of the army. Craterus was given a smaller force to march with at the other side of the river. This was probably after what Plutarch describes as an open quarrel and drawing of swords between Hephaestion and Craterus that culminated in Alexander reprimanding them (publicly for Hephaestion, privately for Craterus).
> 
> Hephaestion was ahead by five days when Alexander decided to attack a city in the Mallian territory. During the siege, Alexander got ahead of his men and entered the city alone, resulting in him getting an arrow to his chest, one of the worst wounds he ever suffered (and to some historians, what probably speeded up his death). Since Alexander lost consciousness and remained weak at least for the first two days, rumors ran wild and even in Hephaestion's camp, men thought Alexander was dead. By the third day (numbers of days vary according to the source), still dreadfully weak, Alexander ordered his flagship to take him down river to meet with Hephaestion's camp and quench the rumors of his death.
> 
> Even if Hephaestion and his camp got news of Alexander's health, no one was quite sure he would survive the wound, making this reunion quite emotional and nerve-wracking. Alexander even ordered his bed to be placed on deck, so the men could see him raise his hand from afar, proving he was alive.
> 
> We can only speculate on the mental wounds that this, and more episodes to come, left in Alexander and his men. But this specific passage has always struck me as highly emotional.  
> Wanted to present another perspective on this.
> 
> (Took some liberties, specially with some characters that weren't physically there to participate in the story, but... that is what fiction is for.)
> 
> Thanks for reading.


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